


Yes, Alpha

by ShadowMeld



Series: The Witcher ABO [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Rimming, Spanking, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22312798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowMeld/pseuds/ShadowMeld
Summary: “…I’m a bard and you seem a man full of interesting stories.  Perhaps you’ll spare me a few and as payment I can keep you company?”The witcher seemed taken aback, his gold eyes widening just briefly, but he could see his nostrils flaring with interest.  It hadn’t been long, but he knew the White Wolf had gotten the scent of him.  Alphas couldn’t resist, slaves to their instincts that they were.  “I thought you were a bard, not a whore.”“Is there much difference?”***In which Geralt is oblivious, Jaskier is frustrated, and somehow everything turns out alright.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher ABO [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607134
Comments: 52
Kudos: 2754
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Yes, Alpha

Another night, another tavern, another group of ungrateful philistines that didn’t appreciate his lovely singing voice. It wasn’t exactly the elegant courts of Aedirn that he imagined when he had set out to become a bard, but it would have to do. The brutes rarely even took notice unless one of his scent patches slipped.

They’d cost him a pretty penny, but the squares of cloth soaked in an alchemist's brew allowed him to live a relatively normal life despite being an omega. The path of a wandering bard could be dangerous, filled with rough venues and even rougher audiences, no safe harbor for an omega yet unmated.

Not that Jaskier planned to find a mate. He was doing just fine on his own, thank you very much. Sure, he had the odd opinionated audience, but he had more than enough admirers to warm his bed between, and the hecklers kept him sufficiently nourished with their… offerings.

Yes, it wasn’t that bad at all.

This night was much the same as many other nights. He sang his heart out and due to perhaps a somewhat off-color phrasing he was booed off stage by the prudish locals. He took the criticism in stride, wrinkling his nose a bit against the rank scent of a few angry alphas before he scurried off with flung loaves of bread. It may not have been roses and coin, but it would keep him fed for the night.

He hadn’t quite organized the issue of lodgings yet, but as he nibbled at a loaf he set his gaze to peruse the clientele. If he worked his magic he may just find an amiable patron willing to share their room for the night.

The patches might dull his scent, but they didn’t dampen Jaskier’s desire for company. Most omega were known to nest; to cherish a warm hearth and a strong mate to snuggle into at the end of the night. Jaskier had given much of that up in his pursuit of the open road, and most days he didn’t miss it at all. But he couldn’t deny the nagging want for company. It got him into trouble more times than he could count, but it was a hard instinct to deny. He ached, and all he could think about was finding a welcoming someone with which to share a bed.

It was on his search for a just such a person who might spark his interest that he spotted a figure that plainly stood out. Amongst a rowdy crowd the man was solemn, but not only that; he was striking. Broad shouldered, and remarkably fair in a harsh, masculine way. He also had the oddest hair and eyes, pale even though he didn’t appear old, and golden eyes cut sharply like a cat’s. 

It stirred something in him, and even if he didn’t stink of it, Jaskier would have known he was an alpha.

He couldn’t help it. The bard had a devil of mischief in him, and he was helpless to resist making his way to the man sat sternly in the corner. He may act like he didn’t want the company, but he may just change his tune if Jaskier let his scent patch slip. He didn’t usually go so far, but he had a good nose for stories, and he was certain that this brooding tough was just full of epic tales.

Despite his eagerness, Jaskier approached the man carefully, smile ready to charm as needed. He moved slow, intentions plain well before he settled himself into the chair across from him. “Nothing to say about my performance? No one else hesitated to share their review.” He prompted, surprised to find the man stayed stoic.

“They’re not real.”

What a strange turn of phrase. He frowned at first, trying to puzzle through the words, only to realize that the man had meant the monsters. All at once he understood. The queer look to the man suddenly made sense. Of course, he should have recalled! His tales had not traveled as far as some, but he knew that this had to be Witcher Geralt! The White Wolf of Rivia… or perhaps most infamously; the Butcher of Blaviken. 

Monsters indeed. Well, he would know, wouldn’t he?

Jaskier practically salivated at the thought of all the stories such a man must have to tell. Killing monsters, traveling the world, more than enough inspiration to keep a humble bard afloat. And yet, the stoic alpha barely spared him a glace. Well, he’d change that soon enough. 

If there was one thing Jaskier was good at it was spurring a reaction, good or bad. This Geralt was a lot of man, but he was fairly certain he could handle him, he’d had much worse than this civilized brute. So he spared barely a thought before he let his fingers wander towards his collar as he took another sip of ale, letting the patch slip just a little as he felt a little tingle linger in his nethers. There was something so wanton about it, he couldn’t help savoring the cheap thrill.

In fact, he’d been so distracted by his own tingling loins that he startled when a large hand clamped to his throat. He let loose a frankly embarrassing squeak, but the hand on his person wasn’t choking or throttling, or any manner of unpleasant things. It was just there, pressed firmly against his collar, and he realized abruptly that it was holding his patch against his throat.

It cut off the distinctive perfume of his own scent, leaving the bard feeling strangely off. The feeling of disappointment that followed surprised him, but not as much as the black void in Geralt’s eyes.

It was frankly… terrifying, but also stimulating in a primal way. Most alphas could never have their eyes go black like that. He was like a beast, and the raging pyre of his suddenly threatening scent was perversely alluring. Jaskier found his breath going short, a heaviness hot and aching as slick wet his fancy breeches. 

The troubadour became gradually aware of the growl stirring the air between them. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel intimidated, but for some reason he didn’t feel scared at all. It was then, aching as he contemplated these feelings that he realized that the witcher’s growling was actually directed at the other patrons of the tavern. A few of the alphas he’d hardly noticed in attendance seemed to have taken a sudden interest in the proceedings, likely due to his… minor indiscretion with the patch. 

“Don’t do that,” the Witcher’s gravel voice was surprisingly deep, and despite the sudden perilousness of their situation, it was hard for Jaskier to be alarmed. Not with a witcher sitting across from him, eyes black as night while he touched him, pressing but not hurting him at all.

“Do what?” he teased, swallowing against the hand at his throat, feeling the flex of the witcher’s fingers. Somehow he knew those dark eyes were following his every move.

“Don’t play coy, bard, it doesn’t suit you.”

Rough though his words might be, the alpha seemed remarkably tolerant as he finally took his hand back, his collar once more demurely set. The rest of the crowd was restless, but the witcher spared them hardly a glace, his eyes at last fading back to gold, though it did little for the wetness in the poor bard’s breeches. 

He hadn’t laid with anyone in nearly a week, and this beast of a man was playing hard to get. He was temptation’s eager fool, and such a curiosity made him terribly intrigued. It may have been against good reason, but he couldn’t help but ache to wonder if the cock of a mutant alpha was different from any other man’s. He supposed there was only one way to find out.

“Well then… perhaps I’ll be frank? You fascinate me, Witcher. I’m a bard and you seem a man full of interesting stories. Perhaps you’ll spare me a few and as payment I can keep you company?”

The witcher seemed taken aback, his gold eyes widening just briefly, but he could see his nostrils flare with interest. It hadn’t been long, but he knew the white wolf had gotten the scent of him. Alphas couldn’t resist, slaves to their instincts that they were. “I thought you were a bard, not a whore.”

“Is there much difference?”

It actually startled out half a laugh, and Jaskier’s smile gleamed bright in victory. Oh, he had him now. The solemn witcher watched him with new consideration, his posture just a little less stiff than it had been before. He may appear an awful slut, but it didn’t seem to bother the witcher a bit. The monster hunter just sipped his beer, sighing a bit before he slipped his half-finished bowl of stew across the table to the bard, giving Jaskier a start.

It was still hot and fragrant, and the omega found his mouth beginning to water. He hadn’t had meat in too long, and the bits of venison floating in the stew smelled terribly tempting.

“Eat, I’ll not have my new travelling companion pass out on the road.”

Unexpected though it might be, something soft and distinctly omega in the bard purred with pleasure at being provided for. “Yes, Alpha.” 

The large man stiffened, but Jaskier could scent the subtle color of satisfaction about him. He didn’t hesitate another moment, finishing the stew under the watchful gaze of the handsome mutant before him.

***

Jaskier was beginning to get frustrated. 

Honestly, he thought he’d been plenty clear. But after months of traveling with the white-haired alpha, of singing his praises and scenting his sheets, the witcher had yet to lay a single hand on him. Now this might be a cause for celebration in the case of an insufferable beast, but he could admit that he had somewhat fallen prey to the witcher's considerable… assets.

And so, not a man to deny himself, he had made some effort to make sure that he seemed... available, but all of it seemed to be for naught. The witcher; instead of making any move to enjoy any of Jaskier’s numerous charms as they were offered had been downright gentlemanly. It was enough to wound a scoundrel’s pride.

His last four heats the bastard had locked Jaskier up and guarded the door like he was trying to break the curse on a damn striga, despite numerous attempts on the bard's part to communicate that he was more than ready to consummate their acquaintance. So instead of spending his heat gloriously satisfied by a handsome mutant with what he imagined to be inhuman stamina, he had tossed and turned, frustrated by the utterly inadequate attentions of his hand.

He had met queens that required less wooing than the supposedly undesirable monster hunter. The witcher seemed willing to bed every beta wench from here to Nilfgaard, but he couldn’t spare the odd fuck for the bard that had done nothing but bolster his downright dismal reputation? 

He knew he was whining a bit, but it was damned depressing to lay out some of his best lines only to have the witcher waste good coin on a whore straight after. 

It hurt his pride no small degree, and too often he spent the rest of the evening sulking, singing maudlin songs to an increasingly unappreciative audience. But what was a bard to do? He’d tried getting the man out of his head, he really had. Half of his ill-conceived dalliances were in effort to forget the broad shouldered monster slayer that brooded beside him. It would have been one thing if the gold-eyed alpha wasn’t attracted to men, or omegas, but he knew interest when he saw it. And he’d given it his all, he’d just say that. On cold nights on the road where the two had to share a bedroll for warmth he had felt the witcher’s rather impressive endowments, snuggled up to them in fact before their lower halves were firmly separated. 

The bullying grip never did anything for his sanity, the omega muffling a frustrated whine when he knew his thighs were damp with slick, foolishly prepared for an advance that never came. Once or twice he was so vexed about it he almost tried to press, but only managed one stroppy word before Geralt’s hand got a firm grip of his nape, scruffing him like a naughty pup as he went boneless before him. The calm that invaded his mind was a frustrating byproduct of nature’s foolish presumption that omegas needed any more controlling. But it worked like every other bastard trick of biology did, and Jaskier was lured to a restless sleep again.

But this was the last and final straw.

That no account witcher was fucking him, mark his words. Tonight. He was tired of the pointy toothed bastard playing the oblivious maiden-cum-whore where it concerned him. Last night the insufferable alpha had even had the nerve to bite his nape, apparently too tired to scruff him the old fashioned way, and as a result Jaskier had spent a miserable night trembling in the grip of the most frustrating arousal, unable to do a damn thing about it. The grip had made it so he couldn’t even touch himself, just quiver, leaking over his fine silk undergarments while his cock throbbed with every beat of his heart. He knew the witcher had to have known of his arousal, because he’d smelled it himself, felt the evidence of a thick alpha tumescence pressed against his behind, yet somehow the damn tyrant still managed to sleep.

Well, if he thought he was getting the best of the bard this time he was shit out of luck. Jaskier was in no mood to entertain this game any longer. Geralt was going to give him the proper fucking that he had promised with every lingering glance and possessive minding. He didn’t know what the witcher thought of his ways, but the bard did not usually let just any alpha tell him what to do. The White Wolf had been prodding him around, protecting, providing, presuming on his part, and it was high time that the rake fulfilled his other alpha duties, such as fucking the shit out of the omega he had been courting for the past goddamn year!

He was frustrated, that was true, but it was important to keep his eyes on the prize. He’d dressed up in his most handsome finery; a crisp blue tunic and matching breeches that brought out his eyes, the breeches tailored just a bit too tight. He knew for a fact he’d seen Geralt staring at his ass in them a time or two. His hair was well coifed, and his scent patches not in evidence at all. For once he smelled exactly as he was; an available omega, utterly impatient for his alpha to make a move.

They’d set up in a quiet little hamlet for the evening, mostly betas after a monster had killed many of their alphas and men. For once the townsfolk had been grateful, generous with welcome and coin. It was a rare occurrence, and he knew Geralt was in a good mood despite his generally grim visage. They’d parted ways this evening as the witcher had gone to replenish their supplies, and Jaskier hadn’t wasted a moment of it. He’d primped and polished himself to a shine, and he would dare any beast or man to resist him.

The townsfolk had allowed them the use of a little cottage that lay empty on the far edge of town after the massacre, and he was eminently grateful for the seclusion. He planned to be as loud as he wanted tonight, he was not going to let an excuse like their being run out of town dissuade him from his pleasures.

His collar was artfully undone as the bard laid himself out on the modest straw mattress. Truth be told it was nicer than their usual lodgings. A reasonably soft mattress, a warm hearth… they could certainly do worse. And Jaskier wasn’t some virgin maiden, he didn’t need a blanket of roses, though he supposed it would be nice.

It might make him worse than a wanton, but he couldn’t help the way his hand wandered to rub over the tented fabric of his breeches where he was hot and aching. A man can only take so much denial, an omega even less. He had appetites, ones that he would at last fulfill. That tease of an alpha would come and see him here, a debauched offering ready to be devoured and he would feast.

It wouldn’t be long until the tavern girl delivered his message. He’d paid her a fair sum of coin to tell Geralt that thugs were set to accost him. Despite her humble looks she must have proven an accomplished actress if the hurried steps and feral scent in the air was any indication.

The door was thrown open and there the alpha stood, eyes endlessly black while one of his twin swords reflected the hearth’s flickering light. It shouldn’t have made him so excited, but he’d seen the witcher at work enough not to fear it. This violence wasn’t for him, or what part if it was stood in his defense, and wasn’t that intoxicating? Just the thought of it went to his head like the wine of Beauclair.

“Jaskier… where? Where are they?” His voice was savage, more growl than any language known to man. It was only after months of translating the witcher's impatient grunts that he could so easily translate.

“Stand down Geralt, or well, at least put down the sword. No one’s here to attack me.” Except his surly alpha companion, if Jaskier had any luck at all.

“What?” the witcher shook his head, obviously trying to clear his thoughts.

He groaned in proper drama, “Geralt, don’t be dense. It’s a bloody ruse you damned oaf of a stubborn alpha!”

It seemed to take a moment, but finally Geralt seemed to understand. He breathed deep, and Jaskier watched as a tension sung through that broad, strong form. The great White Wolf stood frozen in the face of the wave of lust he could suddenly scent like the shocking blaze of a house fire. He stumbled a step back, and all at once the usually affable bard actually snarled.

“No, not again you fickle bastard! You will not protect me, provide for me, play me about then go running off like the countryside’s most debauched monk! I want what you’ve promised me, Geralt. Alpha. I'm tired of your courting me, then trying to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Courting? I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to a man whose silver tongue makes his living. You may like to deny it, pretend you have no desire for attachment, but I know when someone is trying to play my lute.”

The white haired man was rarely talkative, but now he seemed entirely speechless. His dark gaze had not faded at all, instead taking in Jaskier’s handsome blue frock and the eager evidence tenting his trousers, just as obvious a sign as the scent of his arousal in the air.

For once the bard was silent himself as he watched a swift pink tongue slip out to trace one of the witcher’s sharp eye teeth. “I don’t think you understand what you are asking for, Jaskier.”

“Oh, I know well enough, Geralt. It’s the same thing we’ve been dancing around for ages. Stop tormenting us both, we want the same thing.”

It was like the swell of a storm, wild, violent and suddenly breaking as suddenly Jaskier’s pouting mouth was met with a harsh, consuming one.

“You have to be the most foolish, ill-behaved, incorrigible omega I have ever met.” He didn’t suppose it was supposed to be a compliment, but it sounded like one breathed against his lips, the witcher’s narrow hips finally slotted between his thighs, a very distinct hardness rubbing firmly against his own.

He didn’t know when he had gotten so sensitive. Maybe it was the last several heats of frustrated celibacy, or the bastard alpha’s damnedable neglect, but he was shaking in the wake of Geralt’s intensity. So many long, dirty grinds had the bard overwhelmed, hands suddenly aimless as strong hands ripped apart his lovely finery. In his right mind he might have protested such hubris, but not now. Not when the man was finally giving him what he wanted, his rough hands palming the bard’s ass possessively, hot mouth nipping against his throat.

He had never wanted a man more, or had one that seemed so ravenous to consume him. Jaskier would deny to his dying day how his moans cut to shameful yelp when the hand on his ass pulled back to issue a harsh smack that had him humping eagerly forward, babbling nonsense.

The playful tilt of the monster hunter's lips was new, and exciting, if he was honest. “If you want to play the whore, then go on… present for me, omega. Show me what bounty I am being offered.”

He should have scoffed, been mortally offended at the coarse words, but he was not a man of virtue. As it was the bard’s long neglected cock throbbed harder than ever as he scrambled to obey, discarding the remnants of his clothes to turn about, face buried in soft furs as his ass raised high in the air. It was traditional, but such a vulnerable position that even Jaskier rarely assumed it. But right now, burning with frustrated need it felt good to be exposed like this, to feel Geralt’s gaze as he heard the harsh cacophony of armor clattering to the ground. 

After so long, so much dancing about it, this was at last going to happen. The alpha would soon be buried knot deep inside him while Jaskier came over and over again. He supposed after the long wait he’d expected the man might mount him like a bitch, but that wasn’t what happened at all.

Instead the bard whined under another jarring spank to his upturned behind, shivering at the sting of it, hands twisting in the furs as four more were to follow. “So obedient now, perhaps I should have tanned your behind before? Maybe you’d get into less trouble.”

If he wasn’t so wet, and helplessly aroused he might have thought to protest, but as it was it felt good to be so thoroughly kept in place. His bottom was warm and tingling beneath the insistent kneading it was now receiving, but what came as a true surprise was the heat of a mouth in the last place he had expected. 

At first the bard tried to squirm away, but an arm strong as an iron bar held him still as the alpha’s hot tongue swept again over his leaking hole. Sensitive as he was, it was nearly overwhelming how the witcher feasted at him, the firm point of a tongue pressing at the swollen ring, prodding further until all Jaskier could think of was being fucked.

“G-Geralt, Geralt, please, come on…” the pleas fell fast and eager from his lips as the witcher took no pity on him. No, the bard could only writhe as the beast fucked him on his tongue, the hand not holding him in place playing torment on the swollen tip of his dick. A sword calloused thumb strumming ceaselessly over that tender spot beneath the head, and Jaskier thought he just might cry. He’d never felt so weak and desperate, but he had to endure, as the alpha had no mercy.

“Pipe down, omega. You can take more than this. You wanted me, remember? Wanted to get fucked?” Sharp teeth nipped a bottom pink from previous abuses, and Jaskier whined as he felt the smile against his skin. “Don’t worry, you'll get everything you want, pretty bard. All night long, until you’re as filthy and debauched as the next tavern whore.”

He thought he would die before he came, but come he did, eagerly into the calloused fist milking his dick onto the sheets as an inhuman tongue continued to ravage him.

Lights were still sparkling behind his eyes when he felt Geralt pull back, just enough that he could slip two fingers into the trembling omega’s soft opening. Still sensitive from his orgasm, he squirmed, wanting even of it seemed too much.

“Oh fuck, Melitele preserve us Geralt, what-what are you doing to me?”

This time Geralt didn’t answer, just working him open slowly, a remarkable gentleness to his motions, all things considered.

“I'm ready, please alpha, I swear I am, just—" he didn’t make it much farther, as those torturous fingers withdrew, leaving him breathless. He was aching and empty, but it only lasted a moment before a large body was suddenly draped over top him. He moaned and swore creatively, as by slow inches the witcher's cock pressed into where he was most open for him. It was both too much and exactly enough. And that was all before the alpha started to move, his cautious invasion turning into a firm but steady fucking that left Jaskier breathless.

Gods, and when he found that spot inside him… Jaskier was a puddle of an omega, arching and whining into the pounding that abruptly became more intense. It was like the witcher was invigorated by his cries, his hips ramming heavily into the pale behind beneath him as he took his pleasures in the tight, wet hole before him.

He was shocked when he managed to come this time without any stimulation to his cock. He thought he’d get some respite, but Geralt wasn’t finished, he just kept going, even as Jaskier trembled with oversensitivity.

It was some small mercy when he was turned onto his back, though he found himself overwhelmed anew at the sight of Geralt looming above him. He was an intimidating sight like this. A hard, scarred man, eyes feral with lust while a ruddy, swollen cock worthy of a demon twitched wet with Jaskier’s own fluids.

“Still want it?” his voice was gravel and velvet as he gave his thick cock a few pumps, the sound slick and filthy between them. The poet found himself at a loss for words, nodding dumbly just before that ravenous cock plowed right back inside.

And Geralt had him again, over and over, tirelessly until the omega was limp, held up only by the monster hunter's strong arms as he used him like a toy. He wasn’t certain at first the man would ever come until he felt the swell. A high, trembling note came to the bard’s cries as finally, finally the knot popped and Jaskier was at last trembling through his final orgasm, too rung out to even move as the aftershocks continued. Exhausted though he was, the bard was also struck by a terrible contentment as he was cradled remarkably gently against a scarred chest.

He was even more delighted for the soft brush of lips he felt against his nape, and the careful glide of furs being pulled over the two of them as they remained tied together. “Oh, Geralt…”

“Sleep bard, we'll deal with all of it in the morning.”

Jaskier’s lips twisted smugly as he pressed back into the warmth of his surly mate, and he knew Geralt could hear the satisfaction in his tone. “Yes, Alpha.”

The witcher grunted but for once he didn’t protest.

Fucking finally.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this... the filthy ABO Witcher AU that no one asked for, but everyone received.


End file.
